Easter Sunday 2026

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Beloved in Christ, the Gospel according to John the Apostle brings us to the very first moments of Easter morning—quiet, uncertain, and yet filled with the beginnings of glory. It begins in darkness. Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb “while it was still dark.” This detail matters. The resurrection has already happened, but the world does not yet know it. The light has come, but she still walks in shadow.

How often do we find ourselves there?

God has already begun His work—but we are still living in the darkness of grief, confusion, or fear. Mary sees the stone rolled away, and immediately she runs—not with joy, but with alarm. To her, this is not yet resurrection—it is loss upon loss. “They have taken the Lord,” she says. Even in the presence of the miracle, she cannot yet perceive it. And so she runs to Simon Peter and “the other disciple, whom Jesus loved”—John himself. Then begins that almost human, almost urgent detail: the race to the tomb. Peter and John run together, but John outruns Peter. Youth outruns age, perhaps—but love outruns hesitation. Yet when John reaches the tomb, he does not enter. He stoops, he looks—but he waits. Then Peter arrives—and true to his nature, he goes straight in.

Here we see two kinds of faith:

Peter—bold, impulsive, searching.
John—reflective, contemplative, perceiving.

Peter sees the linen cloths lying there, and the napkin that had been upon His head, folded and set apart. This is no grave robbery. Thieves do not take time to unwrap a body, nor to fold linens with care. Something deliberate, something divine, has happened here.

Then John enters.

And the Gospel says something profound:

“He saw—and believed.”

Not because he had already understood everything. In fact, the text tells us plainly: “For as yet they knew not the Scripture, that He must rise again from the dead.”

This is the mystery of Easter faith:

They believed before they fully understood.

Faith often comes before comprehension. The heart recognizes what the mind has not yet caught up to. Grace moves first—and understanding follows.

Beloved, this is where many struggle. We want certainty before belief, clarity before trust. But the resurrection does not unfold that way. It invites us to step into the tomb, to see the signs, to perceive the quiet evidence of God’s victory—and to believe, even while questions remain.

Notice also what is not present.

There is no triumphant appearance here. No angels speaking yet. No risen Christ standing before them. Only an empty tomb. Folded cloths. Silence.

And yet—it is enough.

Because the absence itself speaks.

Death has been undone.
The grave has been emptied.
Christ is no longer where He was.

And that changes everything.

This Gospel teaches us that Easter begins not with full vision—but with signs. Not with complete understanding—but with awakening faith.

Mary comes in darkness.
Peter enters in confusion.
John sees—and believes.

And each, in their own way, is drawn deeper into the truth that will soon burst forth in glory:

Christ is risen.

So I ask you, dear friends:

Where are you this morning?

Are you like Mary—grieving, searching, still in the dark?
Are you like Peter—seeking, but uncertain what it all means?
Or are you like John—beginning to see, beginning to believe, even without all the answers?

Wherever you are—Christ meets you there.

The empty tomb is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of faith. A quiet, holy invitation to trust that God has done what seemed impossible.

The stone is rolled away—not just from Christ’s tomb—but from every place where death, despair, and doubt have claimed dominion.

And in its place—there is life.

Not yet fully seen.
Not yet fully understood.
But already, gloriously, real.

The Lord is risen. Alleluia.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.